Before I could open the volume, Aunt Lydia called out to ask if I was all right. I shoved the book into the cabinet and closed the fragile glass door, confirming it was securely latched. Jumping to my feet, I left the parlor and met my aunt in the hall.
“So he gave you a proper good-bye, did he?”
I met Aunt Lydia’s amused gaze. “Yes, very proper.”
“I doubt it, but that’s just as well,” said my aunt as she turned and headed down the hall. “Now let’s fix some dinner. Sadly, none of us can live on love.”
I trailed her into the kitchen. “No one said anything about love.”
Aunt Lydia shook her head. “No one has to. All anyone has to do is look at your face.” She lifted a saucepan from a pewter hook on the wall. “Fortunately, Richard has that same look in his eyes, so I’m thinking you’re safe.”
I pressed my fingers to my mouth, where I could still feel the sensation of his lips on mine. Hopefully, Aunt Lydia was right, but I wasn’t so sure.
“I don’t know. When he’s with me, I feel one way, but when he isn’t . . .” I opened the refrigerator and stared blankly at its full shelves. “It just seems weird he would choose me of all people.”
Aunt Lydia placed the pan on a burner and grabbed a cutting board. “While you’re standing there with your forehead all wrinkled, venting the cold air from the fridge, I need celery, a tomato, and a green pepper. Also an onion and some garlic from the bin. And Amy”—she shot me a sharp glance—“you do know what your problem is, don’t you?”
“I’m insecure?”
“Well, yes, but worse than that, you overthink things. Just let life happen once in a while, why don’t you?” She pointed at the cutting board with a knife as I dumped the vegetables on the counter. “It’s like how I don’t exactly know what I’m going to make of all this, but I’m confident it will be something good.”
“Okay, okay.” I stared at the ingredients. “We need pasta, don’t we?”
“Yes, we do. See how easy that is?” Aunt Lydia gave me a wink.
I shook my head. “But this is just cooking. Love is a little more complicated.”
My aunt handed me the knife. “Only if you make it so. Now chop.”
Unable to think of a good retort, I took out my aggression on an onion, dicing it into tiny pieces.
Chapter Eighteen
Alone in the library the next morning, I paused at the circulation desk and looked over the quiet main room.
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, casting patterns across the beige carpet. Despite the dust motes dancing in the beams, there was no musty smell like in my aunt’s front parlor. Instead, the lemon scent of furniture polish mingled with the heady aroma of paper, book glue, and bindings—a combination that always made me smile. I loved the smell of books. Although I appreciated the value of computers and online research, nothing could replace the magic of rows of books filling shelves. So much information, so much wonder, so many new worlds, all contained within the library’s four walls.
Grabbing the 1958 folder from the archives refiling shelf, I flipped it open and stared at the paper that mentioned Douglas Beckert and the Carthage Company. What could he have bought in his own name that the town would’ve felt compelled to reimburse? Drumming my fingers against the typed minutes, I decided to figure out what the Carthage Company did, now or in the past.
I looked up the company name on the Internet, limiting it first to the state and then to this general area. Only one mention fit all the criteria, and amazingly, the company still appeared to be in business. I pulled up their website, not sure what to expect, and the description of their services caught me by surprise. This was not just a another hint—this was a vital clue.
The Carthage Company: Experienced Professional Water Testing for Commercial Organizations, Industrial Sites, and Homes, it said.
I scanned through their website, confirming that they were a high-tech lab equipped to test wells, ponds, reservoirs, city systems, and other water sources. Founded in 1950, they’d been in continuous operation since that time.
Jotting down their phone number, I glanced up at the wall clock. Nine o’clock on a Saturday, which might mean no one would answer my call. But I had to give it a try.
I reached someone on the fourth ring.
“Sorry,” said the woman on the other end of the line, “I was in another room, and I’m the only one here right now.”
“No problem,” I told her, then identified myself as the Taylorsford library director before launching into questions about the company’s records.
“Oh, we keep them,” the woman, who introduced herself as Jenny, said. “You never know when there might be an inquiry based on some real-estate transaction, or a lawsuit, or something like that. But we don’t store the older records here. Those are paper files, and there just isn’t room. Our offices got very cramped about ten years ago, so we sent everything dated before 2000 to an off-site archive—Iron Mountain’s facility in Pennsylvania. Ever heard of it?”
I assured her I had and asked what it would take to get a copy of a specific report from that secure storage facility.
“Well, you’d need the approval of the original person or organization who commissioned the testing,” Jenny said. “Like, if you are calling about a report requested and paid for by the town of Taylorsford, you’d need to send us a letter on official stationary, signed by the mayor, someone on the town council, or whoever can approve such things. You can scan and e-mail the letter, but it does have to be on official stationary and signed. Then we would make the request to Iron Mountain on your behalf.”
“I see.” I considered this for a moment. “But you have a database of all the reports, I assume? At least listing who commissioned or paid for the tests?”
“Yes, but it’s private information. I mean, I can’t give out names of people or organizations over the phone to just anyone.”
“No, of course not,” I said and thanked her before hanging up the phone.
I pondered this information. If, as I suspected, the Taylorsford Town Council had commissioned the Carthage Company to run a test on the orphanage well water, it was clever of them to have placed it in Douglas Beckert’s name. That way, no future mayors or council members could request the report unless Beckert approved. His death many years ago rendered such an inquiry doubly difficult.
Clever and duplicitous, I thought as a series of knocks resonated from the workroom.
Richard. I jogged into the workroom and opened the staff door.
“Hi.” He leaned in to kiss my cheek before stepping inside.
“How was the interview or whatever?”
“Oh, fine.” Richard followed me to the circulation desk, where he kicked off his shoes. “Forgot to clean them after my last run, so there’s some mud caked in the treads. Better if I go sock-footed so I don’t soil your carpet. Do you mind?”
I shook my head and led him into the reading room. “Not until we open. Shoes required, you know. But you can just head out the back door before then.”
“Planning to get rid of me already?” Richard’s grin faded as he studied my face. “You look serious. Found some critical info?”
“Yes, in a way.” I detailed my phone conversation and theories concerning the Carthage Company.
“So that pretty much clinches it—the town council probably instituted a cover-up, just like Clark Fowler said.”
“Looks like it. Now, as to the property lines and the wells . . .” I waved my hand over one of reading tables, where I had placed a large document, anchoring each end with an archival box. “Here’s a copy of the land plat that includes the Cooper and Tucker farms from around 1900. Originals are held at the state library, but we have copies of some.”
“Interesting.” Richard stepped up to the table.
I moved beside him, and we leaned over, our heads close together as we traced the property lines and other markers with our fingers.
“Don’t see that Bob Bl
ackstone has any case,” Richard said, his finger pressed against one section. “The Tucker property clearly extends to the tree line, and it’s the same today.”
“The edge of the woods could’ve changed, I suppose, but the mayor’s assertion sounds questionable to me. Just Blackstone trying to muddy the waters, I bet. And look”—I tapped my thumb against one spot—“there’s the symbol for land that will perk.”
Richard glanced over at me. “What?”
“Perk. Like coffee. Means you could dig a well there and likely find water.”
“You know this how?”
“I’ve had to read these things before.” I pointed a finger at myself. “Researcher, remember?”
“Lucky for me.” Richard leaned in to give me a swift kiss on the lips before turning his attention back to the property map. “So this symbol, is that an existing well?”
“Yeah, looks like the only one on the Cooper lands. There’s another one, see, but that’s on the Tucker property.”
Richard straightened and took a couple of steps back, surveying the entire plat. “Then the original well was the one I showed you when we walked through the woods.”
“Yep, and I bet the original house wasn’t far off.” I traced a line with my finger. “See here, there’s the symbol indicating a building. On the other side of the woods.”
“It is a narrow band of trees at that point.” Richard rubbed at his eyes. “Sorry, everything’s gone a bit blurry. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
I stood back from the table and examined him. “I guess not, after getting that medical news.”
“That wasn’t the problem,” he said, giving me a look that made me blush.
I turned away and lifted the boxes off the plat, allowing it to roll back into a loose cylinder. “We still need to do more research, but at least we’ve determined the location of the original well, which undoubtedly explains why Daniel didn’t fall ill until he built the new house and dug yours. Somehow there must be just enough difference in the groundwater between the two. One had the excess iron problem, and the other didn’t.”
Richard nodded. “And if the true story matches my great-uncle’s novel, Daniel’s mother was already ill with some type of cancer, so her death within months of moving into the new house wasn’t unexpected.”
“Which meant it was just Daniel who was affected. Although, wait—remember what Kurt Kendrick said? About Eleanora’s health improving in jail?”
“Yeah. Great-Uncle Paul hoped it was because of his attentions, but it wasn’t.” Richard rubbed at his chin with the back of his hand. “She got better because she wasn’t in her house. I guess she hadn’t been living at Daniel’s that long before, so she recovered fairly quickly once she wasn’t drinking the tainted well water.”
“That must have been it.” I glanced up at Richard’s thoughtful face. “It’s funny, if you think about it. Kendrick’s bad behavior saved him. Getting swiftly kicked out of the orphanage and Paul taking him in not only gave him a fresh start, it also prevented him from falling ill or dying.”
“He does seem to have extraordinarily good luck.”
“Yeah, but so did my family, since they chose to hook into the town water system. Not sure why they did, but I’m glad. And obviously the Tuckers’ water is fine.”
“But the orphanage well was not.” Richard gazed at the rolled document. “Of course it wouldn’t be on this plan, but I wonder where that building was located?”
“Somewhere affected by the iron contamination, obviously. Maybe my aunt, Zelda, or Walt can tell us more.”
“Kurt Kendrick would know for sure.”
“But he told me he was traveling to Europe today and would be gone for some time.”
“Okay, so we’ll have to ask the others next time we see them.” Richard glanced up at the wall clock. “Speaking of time, it’s already nine fifty. Don’t you need to open the library in a few minutes?”
I shook my head. “It’s actually Sunny’s turn to cover Saturday. I told her I’d switch, but since she was out yesterday, she wanted the hours. Anyway, we always have volunteers on Saturdays, so she said she’d be fine.” I frowned. “But she should be here by now. She likes to get in at least twenty minutes before opening, and it’s not like her to be late.”
“Could something have happened to her? Car trouble or something?”
I yanked my cell phone from my pocket. “Hold on, I’m going to check with her grandparents.”
Carol Fields answered my call, sounding baffled when I asked to speak to Sunny. “She’s not here. Didn’t come in last night, but we didn’t worry because we got a text message saying she wouldn’t be back home until today.”
“That’s something, I guess.” I tucked my phone under my ear, bending my neck to hold it in place, and picked up the two archival boxes.
“Yes, but”—Carol sounded troubled—“she also said she was crashing at your place.”
“What?” I had to juggle to keep from dropping one of the boxes. “But she didn’t. I mean, she didn’t even ask us if she could.”
“Really?” Carol’s voice wavered. “You think I should I call Deputy Tucker? It’s not like Sunny to make stuff up.”
That was the most disturbing thing. Sunny’s grandparents, former flower children who’d once lived on a commune, were the last people to be concerned about Sunny staying over somewhere, even at some guy’s house. If that had been the case, Sunny would have told them.
She had no reason to lie to Carol and Paul Fields. None whatsoever. And anyway, I’d never known Sunny to lie, even with good reason.
I dumped the archival boxes on the circulation desk. “Call Brad Tucker. I’m sure it’s nothing serious, but if her car ran out of gas or something . . .” I knew I was making stuff up just to reassure Carol, but I didn’t know what else to say.
Because if Sunny had run out of gas, why would she send that text? Or why not send another one? Why hadn’t she called for help?
Visions of Sunny’s bright-yellow car tumbling into some deep gulley flooded my mind. “You call Brad. I’m going to look around town, see if I spy her car anywhere,” I told Carol before asking her to call me with any news.
“What’s up?” Richard crossed to the circulation desk.
“It’s Sunny. She’s missing.”
“What?” Concern filled Richard’s eyes. “How can Sunny be missing? She was leading that protest just yesterday.”
“Well, she’s not here, and she’d never ditch work without telling someone. And her grandmother said she sent a text saying she wasn’t coming home and was staying with me last night, but she couldn’t have because we never saw her . . .”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down.” Richard reached me and gripped my shoulders. “So no one knows where she is right now?”
“No.” I swallowed the lump in my throat but couldn’t halt the tears filling my eyes. “And she wouldn’t have lied. She’s the most truthful person I know.”
“Okay.” Richard pulled me close. “Relax.” He adjusted his hold until my head pressed against his shoulder. “Now let’s consider what we should do. Have you called the sheriff’s office?”
“I told Mrs. Fields to call Brad Tucker. Figured he might help even if it isn’t declared official business yet.”
“Good thinking.” Richard tipped up my chin with two fingers. “I do have my car. So maybe we should take a drive around town and see what we can find. What do you say?”
“Definitely. I’ll open the library and just put one of the volunteers in charge for the day. They can at least cover basic services. And one of them can lock up if I give them a key. I mean, they can’t do everything Sunny knows how to do, but at least they can check out books.” I sniffed back a sob.
Richard kissed my forehead before releasing me. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”
“I hope so.” I rubbed at my tear-stained cheeks with the back of my hand as Richard pulled a tissue from his pocket.
“Here, this might
help.” He leaned in and wiped my face, then stood back and surveyed me. “A little better.”
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered.
He grinned. “I doubt either of us looks spectacular right now. But we can’t worry about that. Go open up and talk to your volunteers. I’ll throw on my shoes, and then we’ll hit the road.”
I almost blurted out that he looked fantastic, as usual, but pressed my lips together instead.
As Richard balanced elegantly on one foot and then the other to slip on his shoes, I considered my feelings for him. Everything was moving so fast. Maybe I should slow things down a bit, even if I didn’t really want to. Although Richard had been nothing but sweet so far, so had Charles early on. Perhaps, just to be safe, I should keep things on a more casual level, at least for a little while.
I slapped my thigh with my hand. What was I thinking? This was not the time to be concerned about personal issues. Richard had a car and had offered to drive me around to look for Sunny. Whether or not our relationship would grow into something more substantial was not important. I had to keep such concerns to myself. There was only one thing that mattered right now.
Whatever else happened, we had to find Sunny.
Chapter Nineteen
We drove out to the edge of town, stopping at each of the businesses that sprawled from the curve in the road beyond the town limits’ sign to a crossroads that separated the strip malls from farmland.
There was no sign of Sunny’s car, and none of the shopkeepers we talked to had seen her. Our last stop, at a car dealership that promised financing to everyone despite poor or no credit, was the most depressing. The owner was far too interested in the possibility that Sunny might be the victim of a third murder. He expounded upon this theory for several minutes before Richard grabbed my hand and pulled me outside.
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